Palo Duro Prize

Author photo Some hunts are successful, some aren’t; but few are both. Last February, I traveled to Silverton, Texas, in Briscoe County’s Palo Duro Canyon to search for an aoudad with Richard Boca of Antlers Addiction. It was quite a challenge for this 70-year-old with a 28-year-old guide. As the second largest canyon in the United States, Palo Duro has been dubbed “The Grand Canyon of Texas” both for its size and its dramatic features, like the multicolored layers of rock and steep mesa walls. The canyon was formed by the Prairie Dog Town Fork of the Red River, which winds along the level surface of the Llano Estacado, then runs off the Caprock Escarpment. Georgia O’Keeffe, who had lived in nearby Amarillo and Canyon early in the 20th century, wrote about the Palo Duro: “It is a burning, seething cauldron, filled with dramatic light and color.” When Richard and I met at the ranch, he said, “Be prepared to be spoiled.” Seeing two fresh giant sets of horns on the rail leading into the house with bases as big as my leg and over 32 inches long, and hearing the stories of the successful hunters, I couldn’t help but be stoked. I couldn’t change my clothes and get my rifle out fast enough. Bouncing and riding the ridges of this Texas wonder was exciting, and my anticipation was amplified when we began seeing Barbary sheep on different ridges and valleys. “Not shooters” became a phrase I would grow sick of hearing waiting for the spoilage. As sun was setting on my first evening, Richard slammed on his brakes, grabbed his spotting scope, and pointed out an aoudad group at the very top of a ridge over a mile away. “Probably can’t make it before we lose light,” he said, “but there’s one ram that’s worth a try.” There is no such thing as a high gear or speed up these canyons. But when we got close enough for my .30-378, the sheep hadn’t moved far. We got out and walked uphill as fast as I could. Out of breath, we reached the top. Richard found them around a hill only 75 yards away. Talking while looking through his binocular he said, “Gary, he’s a beast. The best I’ve seen. He’s got it all. Get your gun.” His voice was excited as my heartbeat. I braced my rifle but couldn’t see the ram. “He’s right there—shoot him!” I raised my binocular and found him, put my gun back up, but couldn’t find him in the scope. He grabbed my gun out of my hands and pointed in the direction of the ram. But it was too late when I got my rifle back into position. The five-day jinx started as the ram tired of us looking at him and wandered over the rim and out of my life. It was just too dark. Ever drive in depressed silence? That’s how it was all the way back to the bunkhouse. Even after 40 years of hunting I always learn something new. This important tidbit came during the long ride back with Richard asking me one question: “What’s your scope set on?” I looked down and realized I hadn’t changed it from high power setting I had it on at the 1,000-yard practice range. That’s why I couldn’t find the ram in my scope. That, and my 70-year-old eyes, too. I learned an important lesson: as it gets dark, remember to lessen the power of your scope. The next four days we spotted several nice rams, but with that big boy on our minds and Richard’s knowledge of this area, we passed on several, with Richard telling me I was a jinx. Finally on the next-to-last day we spotted one decent ram atop a mountain 600 yards away. Richard took a picture of him through his scope. The next morning we went back to that area and Richard spotted the ram halfway up the mountain. We started our slow stalk. Finally we reached the tiny trails the rams use to traverse these steep canyons. We got to the ram’s level and Richard spotted him. Slowly, step by step, we followed his movements, keeping a hill between us. We could no longer see him, but Richard could hear him walking along with three others. All I could hear was the freezing wind blowing in my ears. Finally he whispered, “I know he’s right down there.” We rounded a boulder and there he was on a ridge laying down throwing dirt on his back with his horns. He had no idea we were there. I got set up and waited for him to stand. In a manner of seconds he stood up and the prize was mine. He was a full mature ram with long chaps and 27-inch horns, not the giant of the first night, but I was thrilled. Now I know what the hunting show hosts often say is true that sometimes the enjoyment of the hunt is better than the size of the horns. A perfectly executed stalk on a weary ram in his territory is about as exciting as it gets. The jinx was over.